Touch Me
by Zarathustrian
Summary: While Bridget's resolve is steel within the walls of Wentworth, what happens when Bridget is home, alone with her thoughts of exactly what Franky Doyle could do to her on that yellow armchair.


Disclaimer - These characters were created by Lara Radulovich, David Hannam Reg Watson. I do not own the characters of Bridget Westfall and/or Franky Doyle. I borrow them without permission (though with gratitude) from Fremantle Australia.

Touch Me.

Bridget Westfall fumbled with the keychain, the security light having failed her. Through pure luck, Bridget wrangled the keys and found the one needed to unlock the front door. Casting aside the overflowing leather tote she continued to cramp files into, adding time to the sentence of working from home she imposed upon herself.

It was either her greatest strength or greatest weakness. Bridget's compassion ran deep, her thoughts genuinely remained with the women she saw on a daily basis. Long after she'd arrived home, changed into casual clothing and poured herself a glass of red, Bridget would spend her evenings sipping faucets of knowledge about the prisoners, their lives before Wentworth, the struggles the women faced surviving day to day life.

One prisoner, more than any other, always came to the forefront of Bridget's mind towards the end of the evening, aided by an additional glass or two of the bottle she told herself not to waste.

Franky Doyle.

In all honesty, Franky Doyle had registered on Bridget's radar the second she'd seen the headstrong younger woman, the temper just below Franky's exterior as dark and rage filled as those dark bangs which whipped unevenly whenever Franky looked with blue orbs over her shoulder. It had taken Franky herself a little longer to direct some of the adrenaline fuelling the prisoner's rough outer shell towards the psychologist.

Yet when she finally had, it was akin to a voracious appetite Franky brought to Bridget. What Franky could stir within Bridget with a simple look, how easily she could leave Bridget utterly speechless with that God-damned smirk.

What reaction Franky could set into motion, one which reverberated through Bridget's entire body, with just a few words.

'I know that smile. And I know what it means.'

Bridget had dipped her eyes for a brief moment, checking herself before giving the question she should have, not the answer she had wanted. With Franky standing over her, her legs indeed crossed as she inched as close to the side of the armchair as possible, there was no where to go and all Bridget had wanted was to say,

'Touch me.'

It would have been so easy, with the blinds drawn to the right angle. Just enough private given from outsiders to have allowed Bridget to surrender right there and then. To let Franky lean in, those perfect lips on a collision course with her own.

Bridget trembled, reality suddenly announcing itself as she looked at the empty glass in her hand. The journal entry half written, the rest locked up in thoughts Bridget carried with her to the bedroom. Bridget's queen-sized bed stood centrally in the room, against a wall, as empty as the wine glass now residing in the dishwasher.

Undressing, leaving clothing like breadcrumbs behind her, Bridget slid between the cotton sheets. Nestling between the two pillows, she turned from one side to the other all while Franky crept back into her mind. Bridget could see the slender woman almost as if she were actually there, entering the bedroom.

'Touch you, right?' That cocky, wide grin would be already across Franky's lips as she stalked across the plush carpet, barefoot, a tigress. Bridget would be once again at a loss for words, barely able to nod as desire overflowed her entire system, a barrier surrendering within.

Biting down on her lip, Bridget brought her hand to her own collarbone, felt the warmth of her own skin before she snatched her hand away, embarrassment replacing the desire.

'You never said where, Gidget.' Franky would use the adorable nickname this time, giving a wink as she did so. Finally reaching the bed, Franky would get on her knees and crawl. Slowly, she would hold herself over Bridget's body as their eyes remained locked together.

'So. Go on.' Bridget let her hand return to her chest, sliding it down.

'With what? Touch you, where? I want you to tell me.' Franky Doyle was not the kind of woman to admit defeat, though when it came to Bridget, she had already conceded once. When Bridget had offered a snippet of personal information to slip between them, Franky had let the trust once again curl around the two women.

Bridget's hand moved faster now, without hesitation, sliding across her taut abdomen and to the dampness between her thighs. Breath hitched as she let one fingertip dip into herself. If she couldn't really have Franky's fingers inside of her as she sat on that yellow armchair, then she would absolutely imagine them on her now, beneath the covers and behind the closed bedroom door.

Franky's hand would not remain there, palm pressing lightly against Bridget's triangle, her fingertip would leave Bridget slowly, drawing a gasp from the multi-hued brown haired woman. That gasp would be swallowed back as Franky's mouth would meet that fingertip, their eyes still holding together.

Giving herself over to the fantasy entirely, Bridget let her head roll back on the pillow, the hand touching her no longer hers but Franky's. It was Franky who slipped two fingers through the wetness of Bridget, Franky who gave a soft sigh of delight as Bridget arched into the touch.

'Still,' Franky circled those two fingers around Bridget's clit, causing Bridget to pulse. 'Haven't,' Another circle, another throbbing pulse. 'Told me,' Before she could complete that third circle, Bridget whimpered impatiently.

Had Franky been there, it was at that moment Bridget would have whispered for Franky to kiss her, to finally bring their lips together. It was the moment when Bridget would have eased Franky's body, with a gentle guiding touch, to place one knee on either side of Bridget's hips, straddling the psychologist.

Bridget would have taken the following moment to bring her fingers to Franky, to reach out for Franky the same way the beautiful younger woman had reached out for her with those haunting eyes in that first group meeting Bridget had organised. It hadn't been quite the success Bridget had hoped, but certain truths had come forward and Brisget had been allowed to see the other side of Franky; the darker side she had to norish behind bars in order to survive.

Truth be told, the idea of turning the tables on Franky, on sliding across Franky's wetness when Franky had had other ideas, it brought Bridget greater pleasure. With the pulses coming faster, stronger, Bridget gave a thought to Franky crying out, crying Bridget's name.

'Fuck, Franky.' Bridget would whisper as she now would enter Franky, finding more wetness than she'd anticipated.

Release came, hot and fast and Bridget writhed beneath her own fingers, wet and thinking only of Franky. Only of how she had sat, in that yellow armchair, not saying what she'd truly wished to.

And as the waves of pleasure gradually began to subside, rolling to a gentle lull if nothing else, Bridget Westfall opened her eyes, finding reality ready and waiting.

Now not only would she never again look at the armchair without a blush crawling across her cheeks, she would have to once more be on guard, red alert, around Franky, and restrict her every word, thought and move. It was torture. Yet Franky was the one who ever night slept behind bars.

And if Bridget could do nothing else, she would not forget that Franky deserved the upcoming parole board meeting to go favourably and it was within Bridget's ability to at the very least prepare the young woman for whatever the future held.


End file.
